by Purser, Ann
In the distant past, Deirdre had kept chickens. They were bantams, and in her idle moments she had amused herself watching the antics of a feisty cockerel and his reluctant hens. In the end, a deputation of neighbours had turned up at her door, demanding that the cockerel must go. His strident crowing in the early morning had driven them to despair, and they threatened action if she did not get rid of him. She had given the whole lot to a nearby farmer, and peace reigned once more. But she missed them.
Now, pouring more coffee for Gus, who had turned up unannounced with the morning paper, she said, “I’ve got it. Poultry is what we have in common, and I shall go up there and talk to her about them. I shall say I’m thinking of getting some more. I know enough about chickens to keep us going for at least an hour.”
“I suppose you don’t want me to come?” Gus said hopefully. He could happily leave chickens to Deirdre. “But don’t forget the real purpose of your visit, Dee-Dee. We do need to know about the cigar-smoking visitor, and why his door is sometimes locked.”
“Did you notice yesterday that from outside you can look up the fire escape to the window? I did, and the curtains were drawn across, so you couldn’t see anyone moving inside. I suppose you could if the light was on. It looked creepy and dark.”
“Perhaps you’d better leave the dark chamber to me, Deirdre,” said Gus, taking her hand. “Can’t have you captured and held hostage by a cigar-smoking villain.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she answered. “Perhaps him with the cigar was having a sleep. Dark chamber, indeed! Sounds very medieval.”
“I knew of one once. In a friend’s house. A small room that had had its window bricked up when there was a window tax. It was used as a junk room, and when they finally opened it up, all kinds of treasures were found.”
“Mm, I think I’ve heard tell of that before. But I’m not put off. I shall go up to the farmhouse a bit later on, to make sure she’s having a good lunch. Then I’ll stay for a chat. No need for you to come.”
“You have my permission to ask about the dark chamber and the cigar smoke,” Gus added, and received from Deirdre a sharp reply about being a pompous idiot.
“I was going to suggest you eat supper with me this evening,” said Deirdre. “But I can’t be doing with any more of your nonsense. I’ll see you tomorrow some time and report back.”
Gus sighed. “I might turn up, anyway,” he said. “Cap in hand at your back door, asking for a crust.”
“You’ll get the boot if you do. So drink your coffee, and I’ll go up and get ready to go up to Blackwoods.”
• • •
ELEANOR BLATCH HAD arisen from sleep quite early, and had gone out into a sunlit yard to open up her chickens. It was chilly, and she drew her cardigan closer round her bony chest. She watched as the cockerel came out first, and then stationed himself by the door as his girls came out one by one. Shivering now, she went into the house and washed her hands under the kitchen tap. The clean stone sink now shone, and there was a pleasant smell of disinfectant everywhere. How had she allowed her home to get into such a dreadful mess? She supposed it was years of depression, living alone and becoming more and more a recluse.
Miss Beasley’s mention of her nephew had taken her aback for a moment. She scarcely ever remembered her sister living in Spinney Close. Apart from paying her rent and giving her a small allowance, that is. As far as she was concerned, she had no sister nor nephew. They were dead to her, and she had no wish to be reminded of them.
She supposed the nephew had come to see his mother, as Mary had lived alone and was now too crippled to go out. She could not even remember the nephew’s name, and he would no doubt be gone again quite soon. She put them firmly out of her mind. That had been all finished years and years ago. If people in the village remembered it, they had the sensitivity not to speak of it.
She would be up and about, and start on redecorating and buying new things for the house. She might join a club in the village. The Women’s Institute would not do. She remembered very sharp things said by them about her lodger!
A book group had been newly set up. Details were in the post office. She liked reading, and decided to find out more. As she began to clear away her breakfast things, she heard a voice. “Mrs. Blatch? It’s Deirdre Bloxham. May I come in?”
“You are in, aren’t you,” Eleanor replied. “I’ve just got up, done the chickens, and had some breakfast. I could make you a cup of tea if you like?”
Deirdre appeared in the kitchen, put down her handbag and began to dry up Eleanor’s breakfast dishes as they were washed. “Have you thought of a dishwasher?” she said.
“I can honestly say that I have never thought of a dishwasher,” Eleanor said with a straight face. Then she burst out laughing, and Deirdre joined in, and then apologised for asking silly questions. “What have you been thinking of since you were brought back to life?” she said, hanging the wet cloth over the Rayburn rail.
Eleanor sobered up. “I have done some thinking,” she said. “I see that I have been given a second chance, and I mean to make the most of it. How old do you think I am, Mrs. Bloxham?”
“That’s a facer! I really have no idea,” said Deirdre, taking the easy way out.
“I am sixty next birthday. And I am well aware that when I was found unconscious on my bedroom floor, I looked at least ninety.”
Deirdre smiled, but did not comment. Instead she looked around the big farm kitchen and asked if Mrs. Blatch had ever considered adoption.
“What? At my age? Dear me, no, Mrs. Bloxham. I know this seems a big house, but I manage to fill it with my various hobbies. I love tapestry work, and as you’ve probably seen, I read a lot. House is full of books!”
“No, I don’t mean adopting a small child. It was just a thought, but there are many young people needing a good home, if only for a short time. Some have never known what a real home is. How many bedrooms have you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Um, let me see. There’s mine. That’s the main one, and then there are three good singles, and a small box room that’s almost never used. So that’s five. But I really don’t want anyone else in the house, Mrs. Bloxham.”
“Does that include the little room at the end of the passage? When we found you so cruelly injured, we looked around at once to see if anyone was hiding. That one, which my colleague calls the dark chamber, bless him, was where access to the fire escape would be. Please excuse me if you think I’m being nosy, but this is an old house and would go up like a tinder box if a fire did start. It would be wise to have free access to the escape, just in case.”
Oh lor, Deirdre thought to herself. I’ve gone too far. Her face has closed up, and the room temperature has dropped several degrees.
“The dark chamber, eh?” said Miss Blatch. “Well, it’s a good name for it. I’ll take a look, Mrs. Bloxham, and see if it can be fixed. And I see your point about the fire escape. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. And thank you for your help,” she added. She put out her hand, and Deirdre held it for a few seconds.
“If you need any help, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring me. Here’s my card. It’s been nice talking to you again.”
As she turned to leave the kitchen, she sniffed. Not fumes from the Rayburn, nor smoke from the fire newly lit in the sitting room. Bert had loved a small cigar, and the smell was like a shove in the stomach. Dear old Bert, how she missed him. Pulling herself together, she smiled at Mrs. Blatch and said she would see her again soon, and left.
Fifteen
AS SOON AS she was home, Deirdre rang Gus. “Hi, are you still speaking to me?” she began, and without waiting for his answer, continued, “Guess what? It was there again.”
“What was? A hawk stealing the chickens? A stray social worker hiding behind the arras?”
“Oh, ha ha. No, there was a distinct whiff of cigar smoke. With
out my even thinking about it, I suddenly remembered Bert, and Sunday afternoons, when we used to sit after lunch and read the papers and he would smoke a small cigar. It was unmistakable, Gus. Somebody in that house either was or had been smoking.”
“Right, well, that is a small clue when we’re looking for a possible lodger. Except that if it was him, surely she would not allow him to carry on living in her house? Might be an idea to ask James at the shop if he remembers selling cigars to a person in the village during the time the original lodger was here.”
“I doubt if James had arrived by then, but we could ask around. As to kicking him out, if he has returned, it might not be that easy for her. Maybe he’s blackmailing her, or threatening her with more physical violence if she tries to get rid of him. If you think about it, it would be very difficult for a rather frail woman to turn out a fully grown, strong-armed man.”
“It could be the reason why she has asked Enquire Within to investigate her case. She might be hoping we will find him, without her actually ratting him out, and then we’d arrange for the police to storm the building without warning, and then send him packing for good. It’s possible, Gus, isn’t it?”
“It is certainly possible. But she categorically denied that her intruder was her lodger. She is sure it is her husband’s ghost. I think we need to have a meeting with the others, and chew over this new development. It’s not much to go on, but worth a mention. Ivy’s a shrewd old thing, and I’d value her advice.”
“Me, too,” said Deirdre. “Shall we see if they can come up to Tawny Wings tomorrow afternoon? I have an appointment in town in the morning, but should be back around two. I’ll give Ivy a ring.”
• • •
YESTERDAY, AS SOON as they left Blackwoods Farm, Roy had wanted to know what on earth Ivy had meant by asking Eleanor Blatch about a nephew. “What nephew?” he had said, and Ivy had told him in detail what she had heard from Rickwood Smith, the new tutor at the Manor House College, adding that she was sure Eleanor blinked at the mention. They had tried to remember where Spinney Close was, but neither had been that way recently. “We’ll ask Katya when she comes in,” Ivy had said. “She’s probably planning to take the baby for walks all round the village, dear little thing.”
Now she and Roy were seated in front of a new laptop computer he had given Ivy for her birthday. She was already well accustomed to the simple tasks, and had suggested they look up Rickwood Smith on the Internet.
“I think I’m improving,” she said to Roy, as she selected Internet Explorer and brought up Google on her screen. “I really love the different designs they have each day,” she said. “Now, here we go.”
Disappointed that nothing had come up connected with his name, she switched to Rubens. “Should have more luck here,” she said.
“I think you’re wonderful, my dear, even to attempt to switch the thing on. But I should know better than to doubt my Ivy’s determination!”
Ivy and Roy peered once more at the screen. “There it is, up there under the College heading. ‘Peter Paul Rubens, MA Dip Ed.’ I knew the name sounded familiar.”
Ivy looked at him. “Are you joking, my dear?” she said.
Roy shook his head, and Ivy sighed. “Peter Paul Rubens,” she said with exaggerated patience, “was a famous painter four hundred years ago. Did portraits of buxom women. Among other things.”
“Oh my goodness, Ivy. Of course he was! Well done, my clever Ivy. Shall we put Beasley in, and see what comes up?” Roy was beginning to enjoy playing with Ivy’s new toy. But she closed it down firmly and said that was quite enough of that. They had work to do, and that meant a trip up Manor Road.
“To see Mrs. Blatch?” said Roy.
“No, to see Mr. Peter Paul Rubens, whose parents must have had a good sense of humour,” said Ivy, with a smile. “I’ve gone through that creative writing stuff we collected, and there are already several suggestions I’d like to make to improve it.”
“Why don’t we wait until twilight,” said Roy, “and see if we can make out lights coming from upstairs at Blackwoods Farm?”
“Especially from the small room over the fire escape in the end wall of the house?”
“You read my mind, dearest. Bodes well for our marriage. Now, try these spicy biscuits of Anya’s. They’re almost as delicious as you.”
At that point, Katya came to refill the teapot and was alarmed and then embarrassed to see Miss Beasley perched on the bony knees of Mr. Goodman, giving him what was clearly a loving kiss. Amidst all the confusion, they forgot to ask Katya where they would find Spinney Close.
Sixteen
WITH A FAVOURITE programme on television at eight o’clock, Roy said that it would be advisable if they set off at six o’clock after an early supper. He was sure Katya could organise a few sandwiches for them.
“So are we going all the way to the Manor House, or only to have a peep at the windows of Blackwoods Farm?”
“Oh, I think out for an evening stroll in general, as far as La Spurling needs to know. You can say we’re going to hear the blackbirds singing. There are some lovely evening birdcalls around that time.”
“Mm,” said Ivy, “don’t you think she might be suspicious of a sudden interest in ornithology? I think we’ll just tell her we’re going out with our mobile phones, and won’t be gone long. That should do it.”
• • •
MRS. SPURLING WAS not at all happy. These two most difficult of her residents had now informed her—not asked!—that they would be going out for an evening walk and refused to tell her exactly where they were going and what time they would be back.
And this wedding of theirs coming up again! Thank goodness they seemed to have other things on their minds, and as soon as the ceremony and honeymoon were over, life at Springfields could go back to normal. With luck.
She stood at the door of reception, watching them negotiating the gate and disappearing off in the direction of Manor Road. Perhaps she should have gone with them to ensure their safety? She looked at her watch. It was already past her home-going time, and she turned away to fetch her coat. Home was in the opposite direction from where they had gone, and before she reached her house, she had removed Ivy Beasley and Roy Goodman from the top of her list of priorities.
As they approached Blackwoods Farm, Ivy, who was walking beside Roy’s trundle, stopped, saying her shoe was loose.
“Shoelace come undone,” she said, bending down. “I’ll not be a minute, but it is very dangerous. Might trip me up, and then what would you do?”
“Pick you up, of course. But take your time, my dear. We have a good view of the farmhouse from here.”
Ivy rested her foot on the footplate of the trundle and bent down. Her shoelace was not undone, of course, so she undid it and slowly fiddled with it, having a good look up at the house at the same time.
“The light’s on,” she said in a muffled voice.
“Yes, and the curtains aren’t drawn yet,” said Roy.
“Oh, look, there’s somebody moving about. Can you see who it is?”
As Roy looked fixedly at the window, and Ivy still wrestled with her shoelace, there were suddenly footsteps approaching and then a brisk male voice rang out of the dusk.
“Can I help you? Having problems? I do believe it is my new student, Miss Beasley? And your fiancé, Mr. Goodman? How nice to see you out taking the air. Don’t you love this time of the year? And there’s a barn owl hooting outside the Manor. Wonderful!” It was Rubens, and with him his new tutor, Rickwood Smith.
Ivy had knotted her lace, and now straightened. As she looked up, she noticed the curtains at the lighted window were now drawn across. The tutor was going on about owls and blackbirds, and she hoped Roy had been able to see who had drawn them.
“Well, we’re off to the pub for a quick one,” Smith continued. “Can we tempt you to join us, either or bo
th? The students have been quick to find the local hostelry!”
“Of course not,” snapped Ivy. “We are only on parole, and have to be back in prison in half an hour’s time.”
“Oh, how jolly!” chortled Smith. “Then I look forward to seeing you again soon, Miss Beasley. Good evening to you both!”
Not bothering to wait until he was out of earshot, Ivy said it was bad luck they had to run into them just as a person had appeared at the little window.
“Did you see anything?” she asked Roy, who was trying in vain to tell her to keep her voice down.
“As a matter of fact, yes, dearest. I did see a figure, and as far as I could tell, it was female. But who it was I cannot tell.”
“Turn around then, Roy. We’d better be going back.”
“Not a very useful exercise, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “At least we can tell Deirdre and Gus to find out if Mrs. Blatch smokes cigars. Some women do, you know. Most unwomanly. Still, if that figure you saw was female, it would be worth asking. Deirdre seems to have struck up quite a friendship there, so she could do it.”
• • •
LATER, WHEN THEIR evening drink had been brought, Ivy took Roy’s hand. “Are you really sure it was female?” she asked.
“Quite sure. Well, almost sure. If the shadow had been a child’s drawing, there was a round head with longish hair, then skinny arms and rounded at the front. We men, you know, Ivy, recognise these things.”
“Then perhaps you men could elaborate a bit more,” Ivy said. “Rounded at the front! Really, Roy, you can do better than that.”